


Tales From the Scrapheap

by misslonelyhearts



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, City Elves, F/M, Gen, Lore-Friendly, Original Character(s), Other, The Hinterlands, Thedas, mage/templar war, misadventure, the lives of NPCs, thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:30:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslonelyhearts/pseuds/misslonelyhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evon and Lucy are a pair of sneaky but luckless city elves just trying to get by on their wits, when the world suddenly goes arse over teakettle all around them.  Mages and templars start a war, demons prowl the countryside, and bloody dragons show up again, spitting fireballs at anything that moves.  They're pretty much out of options, and places to run, when something called 'The Inquisition' peaks their interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_ Somewhere in the Hinterlands, following the chaos created by a great magey crack up in some city he’d never been to, Evon becomes the subject of an unlawful detainment by a group of renegade templars. He is himself an unlawful elf, on occasion, but the scruffy templars binding up his wrists cannot possibly know this about Evon.  Having gone to extraordinary effort, during each of his miserable thirty-nine years, to conceal both his magic and his situationally flexible morality, Evon is unable to contain his outrage.  It is here that we find him, standing in a misty moonlit thicket amid the chirping of insects, bound by a pair of tall rust-plated men. And, as is often the case, we find him arguing. _

* * *

  
  
“I’ve told you my name, for pity’s sake,” said Evon.    
  
“Yeah, but what about your surname?” said the first templar.   
  
“I haven’t got one,” he said, and rubbed his face.  At least they’d tied his hands in the front.   
  
“What do you mean you haven’t got one?”  
  
Evon sighed. “In your extensive travels you’ve met many elves with surnames have you?”  
  
“No. No, I suppose I haven’t,” replied the first templar.  
  
“That is because elves don’t have last names.”  
  
The first templar turned to the second.  
  
“That seem odd to you? Elves not having surnames?”  
  
“Not really,” said the second templar, shrugging. “I haven’t got one, either.”  
  
“Condolences,” Evon grumbled.

The first templar was the smaller of the two, and possibly the smarter, though the difference was nigh imperceptible to Evon. The second templar was the approximate size of a towing barge, and he carried a war hammer. Brains weren’t exactly on order.  Still, struck with a fleeting brilliance he’d clearly never learned to cultivate, the first templar snapped his fingers and turned back to Evon.    
  
“Hey, the  _Dalish_  have surnames.”  
  
“They’ve also got tattoos as big as day across their faces,” Evon replied. He stepped forward into a patch of moonlight and waggled his face, right under the first templar’s chin. “Which, as you can bloody well see, I do  _not!_ ”  
  
The first templar nodded and huffed a great cloud of onion breath into Evon’s face.  He grinned like a dirty old fox and said, “Right. Fella we’re looking for doesn’t have them either.”  
  
Evon winced. The first templar turned him bodily and propelled him down a path into the forest.

They marched him through the woods, across ankle-twisting stones hidden by an abundance of ferns, and several times on the path they passed by ominous old statuary that had long since lost their limbs. Evon gulped, eyeing the squat, carved figures with overlarge eyes and long snouts. The first templar poked him in the shoulder to keep him moving. The mist along the forest floor swirled away as they clomped toward the hazy glow of an encampment.  
  
Evon could see the cage wagon before he reached the clearing.  He licked his lips, which had gone cracky and tight despite the thick air.  
  
“Look, lads, just tell me a little more about this particular elf you’re looking for,” he said brightly. “Maybe I’ve seen him. I can help you.”  
  
“All we know is that he’s a Bald. Elf. Apostate,” the first templar said, irritated.  “And, seeing as you nearly fried our noses off with a wiggle of your fingers, I reckon you fit the bill.”   
  
Old bitterness tugged at Evon. “And he’s got a surname has he, this hairless elven miscreant?”  
  
“Er, not sure about that,” offered the second templar from behind.  
  
The first templar wheeled on his partner, silencing him with a scowl. He said, “All we know, all we  _need to know_ , is higher-ups want to question him before. . .you know.”  
  
Evon refrained from pointing out that, current events being what they were in Ferelden, higher-ups didn’t exist. There were no such things as apostates now. And how long, how very long the beleaguered and belittled Evons of the world had waited for that particular turnabout. But these great, clanky louts acted as if knights and their commands still operated, still did fuckall, while villages burned and every Circle was busted up.  Not that Evon had ever seen the inside of a Circle.  
  
He watched the hulking second templar unlatch the cage and swing the door wide; A cage that contained a single other occupant: a sleeping elf, curled on his side. He was perfectly bald, and the firelight gleamed on his pale, smooth head. Evon blinked. Poisonous as it was to his pride, there was indeed a resemblance.  At least from the back.  
  
“In you go,” said the first templar.  
  
Evon stood rigid, eyes darting to every possible escape route.  But the second templar simply picked him up like so much tinder and heaved him into the wagon. As his options, his freedom, and the dim future already promised him dwindled to even greater darkness, Evon rallied his wits.  
  
“There’s been a grave misunderstanding, gents. I am not bald.” With his bound hands, Evon plucked emphatically at the wispy circle of hair that still remained, from ear to ear, around his head. “I’m bal _ding_. See?”    
  
The second templar cocked his head, like a bear working out a math problem, and seemed to consider Evon’s logic.  
  
“And that!” Evon continued, gesturing to the sleeping elf behind him. “That’s bleedin bald!”  
  
The first templar slammed the cage door shut.  
  
“Tell it to the captain in the morning.”  
  
An enormous padlock, black as oil, clicked into place. Evon held the bars of the cage, watching the first templar pocket the key.  Their dubious idea of ‘duty’ thus accomplished, the two templars shuffled off to the warmth of their campfire. The big one patted the smaller one on the back, set a kettle on the fire, and neither looked at Evon or his slumbering cellmate again.  
  
Evon sank to his knees with a whine.  It was then that he remembered to think of Lucy and Colin.  It wasn’t his most attractive quality, to be sure, but in a state of heightened fear Evon often thought only of himself.  And he was often afraid.  That was the way of the world, though, and Lucy knew it as well as he, if not better.  Being sweet in a vinegary world wasn’t always easy. But she was the picture of ease, his Luce, and to console himself Evon pictured her then: two puffy buns of black hair atop her head and big, dark eyes staring down the road, watching for him. She’d have made tea by now, and she’d have fed Colin the oats they’d stolen just the day before.  
  
Stomach rumbling, Evon gave the sleeping elf beside him a long look.  He was dressed for the cold, matted fur peeking out from the collar of his worn tunic, and his mostly bare feet were wrapped Dalish-like.  But true to the templar’s description, Baldy was as inkless as Evon himself.  If he’d had a staff it was likely the property of their armored captors now.  Evon’s own staff was long gone, swapped without his approval for a fancy stick that Lucy called a  _wond_.  
  
“Ser? You awake?” Evon whispered, leaning close to Baldy’s long, pale ear.  The elf didn’t stir.   Evon uttered a disgusted snort and sat back against the bars, making the wagon sway. “Perfect.  Outstanding. I hope you’re having a good old sleep, Prince Pillowfarts.”  
  
Crickets went on serenading each other in the dark, the renegade templars stretched their legs by the fire, and the night, fucked as it was, went on for all involved.  His panic somewhat dulled by more immediate miseries, Evon busied himself with twisting and gnawing at the leather around his wrists.  It chafed him something awful. He thought of rats and field mice and chipmunks, whose teeth were virtually their only tools, and he chafed harder on the inside to think of himself reduced to the level of rodentia.  Cheese gave him gas. Teeth aching in their undignified work, Evon slipped the first knot.    
  
He was nearly free of his binding when an uneven crashing, cracking sound issued from somewhere south of the camp.  From the cage wagon, Evon watched a breathless templar, in full plate, run up along the path between some boulders at the far end of the clearing.  
  
“ _Maleficarum!_ ” Shouted the new templar, beckoning the other two out of their repose with a broad flailing of his sword. “Down the valley! Move!”  
  
His original captors leapt to their feet, sparing not a single backward glance at Evon or Baldy, and followed the third templar down the path.  They were still grunting curses, yanking on their gloves as they disappeared around the bend, when Evon heard the crunch of dead leaves underfoot behind him.  Sure that an opportunistic bear was about to put an end to the miserable fuckery of his day, he instead turned to find a dark, petite vision of hope tip-toeing out of the forest.    
  
And she was a sight for the sorest of eyes.   
  
“Luce! Sweet, clever Lucy,” Evon cooed and clasped the bars, joy chasing freely through his cramped body. “Did you orchestrate that madness down there?”  
  
She came close to the cage and pulled back her hood. Tiny coils of fluffy black hair stuck out at the edges of her face.  
  
“Nah. Just taking advantage of misadventurous mages,” said Lucy, and leaned up to kiss Evon through the bars of the cage.  She went to the back of the wagon and hefted the enormous padlock, frowning. “They’re decent blokes. You know, for round mages.”  
  
“Circle mages,” Evon corrected.  “Here, wait, you know them?”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t say I  _know them_  know them.”  From her belt pouch, Lucy produced a ball pick and rake. “But, they stayed at our camp most of the day.”  
  
“Stayed at our. . .Luce, you didn’t. . .”  Evon reached through the bars and put his hand over Lucy’s.  
  
“Calm down, love,” she said, smiling, and began to work the lock.  “I gave them tea and biscuits, that’s all, and they were happy to think me just another lost little servant in the woods.”   
  
After a bit of fiddling, Lucy frowned again. “And, like I said, decent blokes for round folk.”  
  
“Circle-”  
  
“Yes, Circle folk,” she huffed.  Then, she hugged the useless picks to her chest and gasped, as if she’d remembered accidentally setting a village on fire. “Oh Evy, I hope they come out of the fracas alright.”  
  
His blessed Lucy was a real whim-walker, a frolicker of the mind, and without his intervention she had a tendency to lose herself there.  
  
“Piss on them.  Worry about us,” replied Evon, unwinding the last of the binding around his wrists.  He rattled the cage door for emphasis.   
  
“Right,” Lucy said, determination wrinkling her brow.  She whipped their newish wand from her pocket and jammed the tip of it right into the padlock.  Evon mewled, hurling himself on top of Baldy at the back of the cage.  
  
A shriek of lightning exploded from the wand, obliterating Evon’s vision for a few bloodless moments.  The wagon lurched and pitched at the door-end, sending Evon and the still-slumbering Baldy sliding.  When the smoke cleared, Evon shook off bits of charred wood and twisted metal to see that she’d blown off the other half of the wagon.  Lucy herself was tossed to the ground, but otherwise fine.  She waved at Evon through the sizzling wreckage and picked herself up.  
  
“Getting better at that, my love,” Evon said, pride tugging up the corners of his mouth.  He scrambled out of the blasted wagon and swept Lucy into a hug. She squeaked against his neck.  
  
Down the path, what had begun as a tremendous tangle of templar shouts and mages whomping magic around dwindled to just a few grunts, and then none at all.  Whoever survived the skirmish would be heading back up their way.  Evon intended to be elsewhere.    
  
He searched the camp for his pack.  To this he added a few goodies he felt entitled to for his trouble: a dagger, tankards, plates, and a dirty portrait of a dwarf lad.  Lucy remained beside the wreckage of the wagon, staring curiously at Baldy while Evon loaded himself up with remunerations.  
  
“What about him?”  
  
“Prince Pillowfarts? I dunno,” said Evon, considering the worth of the battered kettle.  “See if you can wake him. But I’m not waiting around til morning for His Highness to have a stretch and a lengthy morning shit.”  
  
“I am quite awake now, thank you,” said a calm voice.    
  
Evon dropped the kettle and turned.  Baldy crawled out of the wagon, gave Lucy a slight bow, and did indeed stretch himself.  He moved with a straight back and a long gait, walking a little way into the forest, and began searching for something in the dark among the ferns.  Evon gaped.  In his waking state, Baldy appeared as unbothered by the destruction around him, the fear of reprisal, as he’d been in dreams.  Lucy looked to Evon for some sign of what they should do.  He shrugged.  
  
Baldy emerged from the forest with a large backpack and a staff.    
  
“Well, punch me in the teeth,” breathed Lucy.  
  
The staff wasn’t posh, but it stung Evon to have missed such a prize in his looting.  The staff reminded him of more understandable times.  Times before the wand, and the wandering.  
  
With the pack settled and his staff in hand, Baldy squinted to the northwest.  Evon followed his gaze to a patch of cloud and stars above the Frostbacks, and Baldy mumbled, “perhaps I won’t be late after all.” Some lingering internal question so resolved, he trotted past Evon in the direction of the mountains.  
  
Lucy came up behind Evon and took his hand.  The camp was terribly quiet.  
  
“You’ll be alright on your own then?” Evon called after the other elf, but he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_Evon and Lucy resolve to put their encounter with the rebel factions as far behind them as is geographically possible, rushing back to their camp under the cover of night to pack it in.  Colin, the donkey, resents being hurried out of sleep for something so banal as pulling the wagon away from certain doom, and he moves with all the alacrity of treacle in winter.  Though it is his only job, and he is always treated well, he brays his displeasure every quarter mile or so.  The sun rises as Colin, and the wagon, and the two luckless elves, roll to a stop just outside the Crossroads._   
  
  
In Ostwick, they had been hungry.  Evon’s hunger had been of the covetous variety (still was, by all accounts), and he had satisfied it by relieving the privileged of their surplus through every manner of deception available to a scoundrel.  By comparison, Lucy’s hunger had been far simpler, and perhaps more noble: freedom. She’d never lacked for wiles and schemes of her own, but to her thinking they were means to a greater life, a life unrestrained by arbitrary ideas about the order of things.  Yes, they had been hungry.  But until they’d been forced to leave the city, to wander the wilds with little more than Colin and whatever he could haul, they’d never been literally _starving_.   
  
As he categorized so many things about life in the outdoors, Evon pronounced the entire situation profoundly unfair.  Their exile, their limited options, their fear of imprisonment or worse. It appalled him, really, that elves of their supreme talent should be forced to forage like dumb animals when there were whole cities begging to be swindled.  
  
“Every time we pack this wagon I can’t find a damned thing,” he muttered, elbow deep in a satchel containing a clattering assortment of loose cutlery, but no food.  “Where are the bleeding biscuits?”  
  
“The round folk ate them,” said Lucy, matter-of-fact.  
  
“You gave all our biscuits to those rebels?”   
  
“They were old.”   
  
“The mages were old?”   
  
“The biscuits.”  
  
Evon scowled. He frowned at their mostly empty wagon, grimaced at the canvas they would soon have to erect for a tent, and glowered at Colin as he snuffled in the grass for stray acorns.  At least one of them found the countryside agreeable.  
  
“We should do a spot of robbing,” said Lucy.  
  
“What, here?”  Evon’s scowl shifted to worry.    
  
Lucy stepped into the well-rutted road and spread her arms. “You’ve got loads of people running for Redcliffe to get clear of the mages and templars. Sounds ripe to me.”  
  
“But, we’ll have to roll through the Crossroads ourselves,” Evon said, his voice soft. “Someone will recognize us.”  
  
“Thought of that.”  With a canny smile, Lucy strode to the wagon and plucked a wad of wheatsack fabric from behind the satchel Evon had been rummaging through.  Lucy shook the material with a magician’s flourish and then slipped it over her head.  A mask.  She’d sewn a mask, with three whipstitched holes for comfort, and crows’ feathers and dried flowers sticking out of the crown.  The withered stalks bobbed crazily atop her head as she brandished the wand and gave him a hearty growl.     
  
“Ha-HAR! Give us the gold and be spared, ya bastards!”  
  
The mask transformed his beautiful minx into a mummified chicken. Ugly, to be sure, but not much worse than most officially sanctioned mage headwear.  
  
“Not bad, if I say so. Made one for you, too,” Lucy said, her voice muffled by the sack but no less gleeful.  
  
“Robbery’s never looked better, my love,” replied Evon.  She’d used some pinkish yarn around the mouth.  He took her masked face between his hands and kissed her.    
  
“I know memory doesn’t serve you well,” he went on, “but it does me, and it says we’re historically shite at the confrontational thieving business.”   
  
“We have to try.  It’s no kind of freedom without a bit of money,” replied Lucy.  
  
Evon looked skyward, at the dawn drawing swiftly over the world, and he despaired for yet another coinless day spent in nature’s itchy palm.  From his throat came a sudden, bitter, grinding shout that didn’t even have the decency to echo.  
  
Lucy remained masked and calm and cross-armed.  He cocked his head and slumped his shoulders, a posture that rarely earned her sympathies. Cupping her slight shoulders, gazing down into her eyeholes, he continued, “This bandit-under-the-bridge hogwash isn’t for us. We are bad at it, Luce, we just are. Lost my staff in the last attempt, and I don’t fancy losing anything else, including you.”  
  
She pulled her mask off, leaving coils of hair standing out around her head. “We need food, Evy.”  
  
Behind the wagon, gnawing on stubby grass, Colin snorted.  Evon recalled the posters that had appeared above the donkey’s hay-filled stall back in Ostwick, posters with their faces sketched in thick charcoal.  He then imagined those warnings papering the walls of every city-watch from Wycome to Val Firmin.  
  
“Alright, give me a mask.”  
  
Together, they pushed the wagon out of sight from the road, and then crouched behind a cluster of boulders to wait.  The wheatsack masks, sweetly crafted as they were, smelled musty, and Evon was sure he’d come up with hives if he wore his much longer.   
  
His discomfort proved short-lived, as the sound of light, steady footsteps signalled their first unlucky traveler.  
  
“Steady on.” Evon wobbled on the balls of his feet, prepared to spring whilst simultaneously cataloging the breadth of his ignorance with regard to common banditry.    
  
Between the trees, they watched a youngish, dark-haired fellow making tracks for the Crossroads.  He was human, dressed in plain clothes with shoes meant for city streets, and he carried a walking stick.  The young man strode along with a perk in his step and, most importantly, he was alone.   
  
Squinting through his eyeholes, Evon fixated on the walking stick, recognizing it for what it was: a staff, disguised poorly by the removal of its crystal.  The sight of it, the fiery covetousness that it inspired, bore down on Evon until his internal whinging was suitably squashed.  He gave Lucy a sharp nod and they leapt out from behind the rock.  
  
“HA-HAR!” shouted Lucy.  
  
“STOP RIGHT THERE!” commanded Evon, bounding to the center of the road. He heard Lucy skid to a stop beside him. “Not _you_ , blast it!”  
  
“Maker’s breath!” gasped the young man, swaying backward.  Even through the mask’s eyeholes, Evon could tell the lad wasn’t a bit terrified.  Startled, more like, as if a mouse had run across his feet.  Breath whistling out through his teeth, hand at his breast, the young man blinked at them both.  “Wait, is this? Am I being robbed?”  
  
“Right you are, my lad.”  Lucy leveled their wand at the young man, in the vicinity of his nose, her stance more apropos of a duel with rapiers. “Give us the, er, whatever you’d prefer not to part with.”  
  
“Gold, my darling,” offered Evon.  
  
“Look at him, though. He look like he’s got a great, swinging sack of coins?”  
  
His initial burst of criminal fervor somewhat dulled, Evon straightened his mask and reevaluated their quarry.  He made a quick search of the young man’s pockets, his pack, even his shoes, and produced a handful of linty fuckall in terms of wealth.  On the ground between them he dumped pamphlets about the mage conflict, several keepsake letters, two books on magical theory, a mug carved from horn, and a bookmark hammered out of the thumb of an old gauntlet.  Evon uttered an exasperated sigh.   
  
To his credit, the young man suffered the whole appraisal like a chevalier at inspection.  Proud as he might have been about his personal attributes, he did not appear to have a copper on him.  There was a sack, however.  Evon lifted it.  
  
“Please, I beg you,” said the young man, in his first true display of fear.  An indicator of precious cargo, if Evon was any judge.  
  
“You’ll keep quiet or you’ll end up like the last fellow,” replied Evon, picking at the knot around the sack.  
  
“Wh-what happened to him?”  
  
Lucy jerked her head in the direction of the treeline, where Colin stood.  His tail swished.  The young man blanched, giving Lucy and the wand a more profound measure of attention.  
  
“Balls,” Evon grumbled.  The knot held fast, of course, because he wanted nothing more than to be done with the robbery, and out of his hive-inducing mask. He gripped the sack and shook it in front of the young man. “Look, we’re just going to take this. And your staff. Yes, that’s what it is, I know.”    
  
“It’s not. . .How did you know?”  
  
“Everyone bloody knows, you twat. Alright?” Evon snatched the staff from the young man’s limp fingers and he flinched.  “Keep your knicknacks.”  
  
Wide-eyed, the young man dropped to his knees and stuffed his belongings back into his pack.  
  
“Aw, lookit him,” murmured Lucy, standing back on her heel.    
  
“No.”  Evon put his hands on his hips, the sack of as-yet-unidentified loot bumping his leg. “NO.”  
  
“We can’t leave him like that, poor sod.  So soft he’ll be eaten by wild bunnies.”   
  
The young man stood, hugging his pack.  Evon cursed and slammed the staff’s butt end on the hard packed road.  They couldn’t even close the whole robbery bit with a proper threat.  
  
“Maker’s bleeding taint,” he said to the sky.  Turning to the young man, Evon gave him the sole item of worth he himself had carried for more years than he’d ever counted.  “For Andraste’s sake, you’ve gotten yourself robbed, it’s not the end of the world. Take my advice: toughen up, and do it in a hurry. Go to Redcliffe.  Have a pint.  Get in good with the rebels, the sort who aren’t bloody lunatics. And quit faffing about!”  
  
Musty, wheatsack air puffed out from Evon’s mask.  The young man cleared his throat. Flushed and frowning as deeply as a scolded puppy, he glanced from Lucy to Evon and back again.  
  
“My thanks, I guess,” he said, to Lucy’s feet, and slipped the lightened pack on his shoulders.  
  
“Go on with you!” Lucy hollered, jabbing the wand perilously close to the young man’s neck.  
  
Thus encouraged, he bolted down the road at chasing speed until he was out of sight.  Evon pulled off his mask.  He thought to silently wish the man some better luck, but he’d worked out the knot on the stolen sack and the old, thieving eagerness washed away his good will.  
  
“Nice fellow, yeah,” Lucy said.  
  
Evon peered at the contents.   
  
“Like from like, I suppose,” he muttered.  When Lucy gave him a quizzical look, he held the sack open. “Small potatoes.”  
  
She slipped the mask from her head and snorted.  Together they returned to the wagon and stashed the potatoes alongside the mismatched cutlery.   
  
“We could go to Redcliffe, like him, give the Circle folk a try,” said Lucy, her usual brightness sullied by doubt. “If they’re all like Ser Stumblebum back there, none of them knows the first thing about the real world. I reckon that makes us valuable.”   
  
“Imagine us being worth something.”  Evon scratched Colin’s ears and fixed him to the wagon’s harness.  He hefted the young man’s staff. “Unlike this.  Crystal’s gone, no blade, grip’s loose.”  
  
“Think we could whittle it into another wand?”  
  
The bleeding _wand_.  Evon clucked his tongue.  If it hadn’t been so useful, he would have chucked the thing into the next campfire.  He was not given to superstition, priding himself on the strict application of logic to even the most minor of victories or misfortunes.  For the wand, however, he made an exception of extreme prejudice.  Demons, green fog, everyone gone mad with rebellion. It could have been coincidence, but nothing had been the same since its appearance.    
  
To prove a point around the mere suggestion of a second wand, the sky overhead boomed abruptly and with unnatural force. It shook the wagon near to pieces, vibrated the ground beneath their feet, and the giant trees around them swayed like meadowgrass.  A great spur of green light tore upward over the Frostbacks, penetrating into a void, and the sun went invisible under sudden, malevolent clouds.  
  
Colin brayed, hysterical, and would have run off again had he not been hitched to the wagon.  Lucy and Evon clung to each other in the din while the earth and sky seemed determined to shake themselves apart.  
  
Against his shoulder, Lucy cried out, “Evy, what in the world. . .”  
  
The cataclysmic shaking went quiet as quick as it had begun, sucking back to stillness, down to the leaves in the trees that stopped their shivering.  Evon squinted toward the Frostbacks where the column of green light remained, a beacon or a warning, turning and turning, rippling with stones below a swirl of black clouds.   
  
“ _Maferath’s balls_ ,” he breathed.  “What now?”

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to flutiebear. <3


End file.
